Vankarel thrived, and Rhode, strolling its bustling streets, felt that vibrancy deep in his bones.

After scaling the wall, he actually felt a little grateful to that duel-happy girl. Without her, he’d still be tied up for half the day.

Prosperity had its perks—but also its downsides. Crowded streets, for one. Luckily, Rhode’s small frame let him slip through the throng with ease.

He squeezed toward a bard and listened intently. The crowd had gathered purely for the tale. Reading a story and hearing it from a bard weren’t quite the same. To Rhode, the bard’s version was simply more “dramatic.”

Yet that very flair gave the story serious cool factor. Not everyone had patience for books, which was why bards remained vital storytellers—even in this age of magi-tech. The rat-a-tat of enchanted guns and the art of storytelling weren’t at odds.

Rhode admired the profession, even felt a flicker of longing. But longing was one thing; actually becoming one? Another story entirely. Born into the Carasco family, he knew that path was closed to him.

In noble houses, most careers were off-limits—except one universally tolerated “side gig”: the so-called “Adventurer.”

Many clans used it to “train heirs.” Rhode found the whole thing pretentious and tedious.

“Adventurer” was less a job, more an industry. From gathering herbs to monster hunts, escorts, and beyond—their accepted tasks now spanned nearly everything. Lucrative, yes, but perilous. Still, the rewards drew crowds.

Unlike the last epoch, when adventurers were everywhere, the bar was now high. Registration alone wasn’t enough. Rigorous vetting was required. The guild no longer took shady or trivial requests.

Ranks still ran E to S-rank, but criteria were stricter. Advancement demanded mastery of a specialty—lockpicking, healing, raw combat skill. An S-rank no longer meant pure fighting power.

Mentioning the prior epoch called for a history refresher.

Official records named four epochs: the First—divine creation and vanishing; the Second—mortal rise and suffering; the Third—an era of struggle and reconciliation.

(That earlier snarky summary? Pure Rhode bias.)

Now was the Fourth Epoch—an age without poetic labels.

In Capulas, gods were acknowledged. People prayed for blessings. Truthfully, deities didn’t feel utterly untouchable. They were powerful, sure—but whispers spoke of mortals rivaling them. Rhode had never seen one. Still, that faint accessibility made gods feel… closer.

Yet worship endured. Only gods could bestow true blessings—a privilege no mortal strength could replicate.

Vankarel, founded late in the Third Epoch, thrived as legend foretold. After all, it was said to be the age when gods and humans walked side by side.

Evening glow washed over the streets.

Rhode stretched with a satisfied sigh after the tale ended. Today’s story—*The Assassin Who Wasn’t Cold*—left him oddly fond of assassins. Mysterious, elusive… they fed youthful fantasies.

“Assassins sound pretty cool,” Rhode murmured, drawn to that effortlessly cool aura. A typical boyhood dream—and he was no exception.

Walking on, he playfully mimicked a few lazy thrusts with bare hands.

“Hm?” Spotting something at a roadside stall, he backtracked. Crouching, he picked up a sharp black iron shard, tapped it twice. “This looks good.”

He knew it was just scrap—but its dagger-like shape charmed him.

“It’s scrap—ahem! A fine dagger!” the merchant blurted, catching himself mid-sentence.

“Super cheap! Just this much,” he added, flashing three fingers.

“3G, right?” Rhode gave a knowing smile. (G was the standard currency; 1G covered a simple breakfast.)

“No, no—it’s 3—" The merchant shook his head wildly.

“30G? Fine. A bit steep,” Rhode sighed, reluctantly tossing a silver coin. “But I like it. Worth it.” He stood, clutching the shard, and melted into the crowd.

“Wait! 300G!” the merchant yelled.

Too late. Rhode’s small figure had vanished.

Grumbling, the merchant pocketed the 30G. “Whatever. It was scrap anyway.” He’d only bought it because the seller was a pretty girl. If it were truly worth 300G, he’d have chased the kid down.

“Fooled by a pretty face,” he muttered, slapping his own cheek in regret.